Marvel Novel Series 08 - The Amazing Spider-Man - Crime Campaign Page 2

  There was nothing in the room but dust, and, before he could stifle it, Spider-Man sneezed loudly. I wonder if any of the other heroes in town have to worry about their allergies.

  On the first floor directly beneath where Spidey stood, Bormann heard the sneeze and a look of panic crossed his face. “Jim! Hey, man, th-there’s a cop up there!”

  “Yeah?” Strickland pulled back the bolt on his rifle, feeding a shell into the breech. “Let’s see how long he stays up there.” Without bothering to take aim, he pointed the barrel of the gun at the ceiling over his head and squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession, plugging large holes in the plaster overhead.

  The telltale tingling of his spider-sense came to life once again in Spider-Man’s skull and, without thought, he threw himself headlong across the dusty floor just seconds before the three high-caliber shells erupted through the floorboards. Thank you kindly, spider-sense. Well, I guess there’s no sense playing hide-and-seek up here any longer, so . . .

  He crouched, pulling his balled-up fists back and then driving them through the floorboards.

  . . . I might as well get down there and make like the cavalry!

  The apparent explosion of the ceiling over their heads caused Bormann, Strickland, and the four hostages to cover their heads with their arms for protection from the shower of plaster.

  “W-what is it, man? What happened, Jim?”

  Jim Strickland didn’t answer. Rather, he stared in disbelief at the man in the crimson and blue costume who stood with arms akimbo upside down next to a large hole in the ceiling. Spread across the red portion of this bizarre garb was a frightening black spiderweb pattern. His eyes seemed to be huge, white orbs.

  “You’re wasting your time asking your friend, friend,” Spider-Man said. “Ask me. I caused it, y’know.”

  Bormann struggled to his feet as panic gripped him in the face of this . . . man. He brought his gun up and aimed it unsteadily at the upside-down man’s head. The Web-slinger chuckled beneath his mask and, with lightning-quick speed, snaked his hand out and knocked the Magnum to the floor. Then he brought his hand back and slapped the trembling criminal across the mouth, sending him flying across the room to crash into a display of stacked cans of tennis balls.

  As Strickland watched his dazed partner struggle to his feet amid the toppled pile of tin cans, Spider-Man dropped to the floor, somersaulting in midair to land on his feet next to the huddled-together hostages.

  Nettie Baum cowered, hugging Mr. Tockman’s head close to her breast as she glanced fearfully at Spider-Man. My god, she thought, reaching for her grandson’s hand, these maniacs will kill us all!

  Strickland recovered from his shock quickly and turned on Spider-Man, a low growl beginning deep in his throat. “Let’s not get hostile now, pal. I wouldn’t want to have to mess up that pretty face of yours,” Spidey said. But the hold-up man merely growled louder and swung his rifle into line with the Web-slinger’s midriff.

  Spider-Man tsk-ed under his breath and pointed a hand at the other man’s gun. A barely audible twipp could be heard and Spidey yanked sharply toward himself. The rifle, caught by a strand of webbing, flew from Strickland’s fingers.

  Spider-Man began to whirl when he heard Ann DeLarye gasp behind him, but that move was cut short as a blinding flash of pain shot through his neck and shoulders. He fell limply to the floor. Eugene Bormann stood over him, holding a baseball bat in his hands. Through the red haze of pain, Spidey saw the nervous crook rushing at him, the bat poised over his head to deliver the final blow.

  Abruptly, the Web-slinger pulled back his legs, bent at the knees, and rammed both feet heavily into Bormann’s stomach. The man’s breath exploded from his lungs and Spidey pushed him aside before springing to his feet.

  “Okay, sunshine boys. From now on, no more Mr. Nice Guy!”

  Strickland tugged frantically at his belt as he groped for the handle of his revolver. He pulled it loose with a loud tearing of cloth and, before the Web-slinger could make a grab for him, began firing wildly.

  Spider-Man leaped quickly to one side, the deadly hail of lead riddling the wall behind where he had stood. Strickland looked about him in the gloom of the store, his eyes flashing madly.

  “Peek-a-boo!”

  The Wall-crawler clung to the far wall of Tockman’s Sporting Emporium, his arms and legs spread awkwardly at his sides. “Come on now, Jimmy. How’re you ever going to win the giant Kewpie doll if you can’t even hit the target?”

  Spidey glanced quickly to his side in time to see Bormann rise unsteadily to his feet once again, the glint of fear in his eyes replaced now with an almost maniacal gleam of hate.

  “Listen, pal,” Spider-Man said, “we’re never going to be able to get acquainted if you don’t keep still for a few minutes.”

  His hands came away from the wall and Spider-Man aimed his web-shooter at Bormann, then fired a thick, continuous stream of viscous web-fluid all over the approaching felon. The webbing rapidly enveloped Bormann, pinning his arms to his sides and wrapping tightly about his ankles. With a scream of outrage, Eugene Bormann fell forward, knocking himself cold against the edge of a display case full of switchblades.

  Jim Strickland continued to fire his pistol until it was empty, but suddenly his hands no longer seemed to possess their former steadiness and his shots went awry. It was that demon on the wall, that Spider-Man who could be neither shot nor knocked out. It stood like a dark thing of the night against the stark white walls of the store, like . . .

  . . . like a creature from hell!

  The crook threw his empty gun at the dark shadow on the wall, but it merely slapped the weapon aside and laughed a menacing laugh that sent a chill of terror up Strickland’s spine. “Face it, bozo,” it said, its voice muffled and made eerie by the thick material of the mask. “You’ve just bought the old farm!”

  With that, Spider-Man sprang from the wall and threw himself on top of the screaming form of Jim Strickland. His right fist flashed out and caught Strickland on the chin. A low cry of terror was cut short in the crook’s throat as his head snapped violently back and he sagged like a deflating balloon to the floor.

  “Nighty-night, campfire kids,” Spidey chuckled, then set about spinning a chemical cocoon around the unconscious crook. When that was done, he attached a single strand to the rest of his creation and hoisted the man upside down from the ceiling.

  “That’s the show for this evening, folks,” he said, turning to the hostages. “Is everybody okay?”

  But none of the hostages responded. Mrs. Baum and Ann lay huddled on the floor, their bodies shielding Mr. Tockman and Howard from stray bullets. It was Nettie Baum, though, who finally mustered the courage to face the masked youth.

  “W-what are you going to do to us, Mr. Spider-Man?” Her voice quavered as she spoke.

  “Great!”

  The word exploded from Spider-Man’s lips in genuine anger, further scaring the people on the floor. “This is just great! I risk my neck to save yours, and you’re more afraid of me than you were of them . . . and they had guns, for crying out loud!”

  But the Web-slinger’s words were not reaching the former captives, and, with a sound of disgust, he turned his back to them and sprang lithely through the hole in the ceiling.

  I wonder if Captain America has these problems.

  Spider-Man pulled open a musty window upstairs and climbed out, leaping to the wall of the building next to the sporting goods store, then began to climb up its sheer face. Well, what’d I expect? The way J. Jonah Jameson keeps blasting me every day in the Daily Bugle, it’s natural everyone should hate me!

  Sometimes I think that’s what I’m here for.

  Two

  Spider-Man dropped nimbly to the grass-covered strip of soil alongside the simple, wooden-framed house he had grown up in in Forest Hills. He crouched in the shadows beside the square of light from the kitchen window and reassured himself that his entrance had gone unnoticed. I’d hate
to have to explain to the lady of this particular house what Spider-Man is doing in her garden!

  Sighing in relief in the cool air, Spidey reached up and pulled off his mask, revealing the youthful features of a weary Peter Parker. He ran his fingers quickly through his tousled brown hair, shoving it back into its customary widow’s peak. Whew! Playing patty-cake with those thugs sure took a lot out of me. I’ve just got to stop all this worrying and get me some sleep! Peter reached down and pulled a neatly folded stack of clothes from beneath a nearby bush. In minutes, the strange, frightening figure of Spider-Man was gone, replaced by the casually clad form of Peter Parker.

  Peter carefully checked over his appearance before walking around to the front of the house. Can’t have any of the old webbing hanging out of my shirttails in front of Aunt May. That sweet old lady’s been like a mother to me . . . Heck, in a way, she was my mother! After all, didn’t she raise me like the son she never had after my parents died? A pained expression crossed Peter’s face. Lord, if she ever found out that her “fragile” nephew was the dreaded Spider-Man, the shock might not only trigger another heart attack, it could kill her!

  Knocking on the door, Peter tried to compose his tired features into something other than the wreck he knew he must look like. When it came to Peter’s health, Aunt May still treated him as she had when he was five years old.

  The door opened and Peter smiled broadly at the kindly, wrinkled face that greeted him. “Why, hello, Peter, dear,” May Parker said, smiling at her nephew.

  Peter feigned shock. “Why, who are you, you gorgeous young thing? What’ve you done with my Aunt May?

  Aunt May tittered softly. “Oh, Peter! How you do go on!”

  He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Hey, babe, what say you shove that pot roast of yours in the freezer and you and I step out to a disco and boogie till dawn?”

  “You mean like that boy in Saturday Night Fever, John Revolta?”

  “Er, that’s Travolta, Aunt May, although, come to think of it, your way is probably a lot closer to the truth.”

  May Parker closed the door behind her nephew. “Well, come on in, dear. A friend of yours is waiting to see you in the living room.”

  Peter looked confused. “A friend? Who . . . ?”

  Aunt May smiled. “It’s a young lady, Peter.”

  Peter Parker’s heart began thumping like a sledgehammer in his chest. “You mean Mary Jane’s here . . . ?”

  “No, dear.” Aunt May patted his arm. “She’s such a sweet, polite young thing. And so pretty. She says her name is Cindy Sayers.”

  Peter blinked, his face registering his lack of comprehension.

  “Sandy Sayers?” he asked.

  “That’s Cindy, Peter.”

  Peter turned to face the source of that voice. There, standing in the foyer, was Cindy Sayers—all five-feet-seven fantastically stacked inches of her. Peter stood staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at her smiling, movie-star face. When Aunt May had called her pretty, Peter had realized that the old lady was making perhaps the greatest understatement of her life. But Peter’s dumbfounded expression was quickly replaced with a frown when he remembered who this girl was.

  “You’re J. Jonah Jameson’s niece, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty.”

  Peter exhaled sharply. “Listen, lady, I told your loud-mouthed uncle, and now I’ll tell you: I work alone! I don’t need some amateur photographer tagging along behind me asking stupid questions every time I click the shutter.”

  “Peter!”

  Aunt May’s voice was stern, as if the old woman were reprimanding a child. “The young lady is a guest in this house.”

  Cindy smiled at the elderly woman. “Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Parker. I think Peter’s just laboring under a slight misapprehension about our relationship.”

  “What relationship?” Peter frowned. “I never even met you before just now.”

  Cindy stepped closer to Peter, her long, shiny blonde hair swinging around her back, her sparkling green eyes smiling at him. “The good relationship we could have if you’d just listen instead of running off at the mouth, Mr. Parker!” Peter tried to speak, but Cindy cut him off with her breathless rush of words. “Uncle Jonah tells me you’re the best photographer working for the Daily Bugle these days, probably the best shutterbug in the whole city. Underneath all the shouting and the gruff exterior, he has a lot of respect for you and your talent.

  “I’m not bad with a camera myself, Peter, and I know that if you’ll give me the chance, I can be even better. And Uncle Jonah really wants me to work with you. All I need are a few pointers . . . honest! I wouldn’t get under your feet, and I promise I’d keep the stupid questions to a minimum.”

  She winked and chucked Peter under the chin. “So, what d’you say, kimo sabe?”

  Peter tried not to let a grin break through his frown. Gosh, she is kinda cute.

  “Now, Peter, I think Cindy makes an awful lot of sense,” May Parker told her nephew firmly. She smiled sweetly at the girl. “And she is being so nice about this, and she is that nice Mr. Jameson’s niece . . .”

  “ ‘Nice Mr. Jameson’!?”

  “. . . and, besides, dear, there’s no reason why you two couldn’t be friends. You’ve been so depressed ever since you stopped seeing Anna Watson’s niece . . . Now, don’t deny it, Peter. I can always tell when you’re feeling blue.” Aunt May looked at the two youngsters, the bright red glow of embarrassment rising on her cheeks. “Well, what I’m trying to say is that I think you two children would make such a lovely couple.”

  Peter threw up his hands in exasperation. “Aunt May!”

  The old woman shook her head. “I’ll hear no more of this, Peter. The discussion is closed.” With that, Aunt May turned on her heels and marched into the kitchen to administer to her pot roast.

  Despite himself, Peter smiled at the retreating figure’s back. God bless that old woman, he thought warmly. If they ever start giving out Nobel Prizes for selfless devotion to others, Aunt May’s sure to become the permanent winner!

  Cindy Sayers stood with her arms folded across her chest as she watched this warm family scene. “You ought to listen to your aunt, Peter.”

  He smiled miserably. I need this like I need a year of free spulunking lessons, right? What am I supposed to do with my shapely little shadow here if I’ve got to make a quick change to Spidey? Ask her to hold my pants?

  “My partner, huh?” he asked.

  Cindy brightened. “Do I detect a note of surrender?”

  “Well, no . . . I . . .”

  Cindy linked arms with Peter and led him into May Parker’s modestly furnished living room. “Come on, Parker, admit it! The idea of working with me isn’t so bad.”

  “Well, no . . . but . . .”

  “And I could learn a lot from you, you being an award-winning photographer and all, right?”

  “Sure, but . . .”

  They sat down side by side on the sofa, Cindy maintaining a firm grip on Peter’s arm.

  “Besides, Peter, I think you’re kind of cute.”

  Peter looked suddenly into her smiling green eyes. Hey, spider-sense! How is it that you warn me whenever there’s bad guys and bullets flying around . . . you know, stuff I can handle . . . but you never even give a tingle when there’s real danger around, like a beautiful blonde lady?

  Cindy smiled seductively at him. “Your aunt said you were shy, Peter, but . . .”

  She’s got the darnedest green eyes. Funny I didn’t notice them before . . .

  Awww, what the heck!

  “Lady,” Peter said as he leaned forward and switched on his most dazzling smile and all the charm he could muster, “there may be a whole lot of things wrong with me, but shyness ain’t one of them.”

  Cindy Sayers’s eyes twinkled brightly as she squeezed Peter’s arm. “Mister, that’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time!”

  From the dining room. Aunt May called them in to dinner.

&nb
sp; “And that,” Peter said as they stood and strolled arm in arm into the dining room, “is the best news I’ve heard since lunch! Just wait until you sink your teeth into Aunt May’s pot roast, Cindy. And her potato casserole? It’s so good you could die from it . . .”

  Dinner was delicious, and, after she had accepted Peter’s and Cindy’s compliments on her cooking, May Parker settled back to enjoy her food and the delightful chattering of the two youngsters. She smiled secretly to herself throughout the meal, pleased with her instincts. The moment Cindy Sayers had appeared at the front door asking to see Peter, Aunt May knew this was the girl for him. And now look at them! Peter had moved his chair closer to Cindy’s and they sat looking, in May Parker’s opinion, wistfully into each other’s eyes while they ate.

  May Parker knew her nephew well.

  By the time dinner was over, Peter Parker was sure he was, if not in love, at least deeply infatuated. Despite his earlier misgivings, Cindy Sayers was everything he could ever want in a woman: intelligent, charming, witty, and beautiful. Even her bad qualities are good!

  Aunt May stood firm in her refusal of Cindy’s offer to help with the dinner dishes. “No, no, dear,” she insisted. “And there’s certainly no need for the two of you to sit here all evening and entertain an old woman, either!”

  As well as she knew him, Peter knew exactly what his aunt was up to, even before she said, “So why don’t you scoot now, and I’ll just go to bed a little early tonight.”

  At the door, as Cindy walked ahead of Peter, he leaned over to kiss Aunt May happily on the cheek. “You are one sharp lady, lady,” he whispered.